LITMIR.BIZ

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there looking so mouthwateringly scrumptious.” She patted each of them on the chest and headed off for the cash register.

      Cannon grinned after her. He and Ella had hit it off right from the start back when he’d first worked at Rowdy’s. She teased, but never, not once, had she honestly come on to him. He was willing to bet the same was true for her treatment of Rowdy.

      “So you plan to claim your inheritance, huh?”

      Only half listening, Cannon nodded. “For now anyway.” If he refused it, how could he cozy up to Yvette?

      “What does she think of that?”

      “Don’t know yet.” Should he still go to the house? Yvette had been clear on her preferences. She didn’t want him there.

      “You get challenged a lot?”

      “That wasn’t a challenge. That was just drunken stupidity.”

      “I guess other guys have enough self-preservation not to go there, huh?”

      Cannon shrugged. “Maybe I’m just a nice guy.” And maybe Yvette truly didn’t need him anymore—

      Laughing, Rowdy nudged him. “Yeah, you’re nice enough. So here’s some well-meaning advice—when in doubt, go with your gut.”

      “Meaning?”

      “You want to go to her. I can see it. Hell, everyone in here can see it.”

      That prompted Cannon to look around, and he found the room ripe with speculation. He drew in a deep breath...and caved.

      With new determination, he pushed off the wall. “Yeah.” He’d go to her, and if she was already in bed—probably avoiding him—well, then, at least he’d be there, close by. And in the morning he’d catch her for a nice long chat, and more. “Thanks.”

      “Cannon?”

      He paused.

      “Go easy on her, too, okay? I think she’s probably more fragile than she’s letting on.”

      Damn it, since he’d always trusted Rowdy’s insight, a new urgency gripped him. “See you tomorrow.”

      Turbulent thoughts pushed him to drive too fast. When he reached the house, he found it lit up like Christmas with every outdoor light on. It was by far the most illuminated house on the block. Bright lamps decorated either side of the front door and over the driveway, and floodlights shone over each side of the yard.

      Yvette had parked in the driveway, so he pulled in behind her. If she had thoughts of leaving before him in the morning, he’d know, because she’d need him to move his car.

      He felt manipulative, but what the hell. For now, it worked.

      He tried the doorknob, found it locked, and dug out the key to get in. Would she be curled up on the couch watching TV? Maybe in the shower? Or would she be tucked into bed? Each visual was nice, but he preferred the shower scene.

      Unfortunately, when he stepped in, silence greeted him. So she had turned in? Hard to tell with so many lights on, but yeah, one glance down the hallway and he saw her closed bedroom door.

      Disappointed, he dropped his overnight bag and looked around. The house was different, but how he felt about it wasn’t. The open dining room drew his gaze. It took only a nanosecond for him to recall exactly how Yvette had looked caught up against the thug’s body—and how her helplessness had turned him inside out. Thinking of how differently that day could have gone stirred his rage anew.

      Yvette might not need him to be here with her now, but he needed it.

      Doing his best to block the black thoughts, he roamed the house, first going down the hall to the room he’d use. Not her grandfather’s room, but the spare room—the one closest to Yvette. He set his overnight bag beside the bed and emptied his pockets on the nightstand. The bed was only a twin, but he’d manage.

      Turning to the wall, he thought of Yvette on the other side. Did she sleep on her side, snuggled into her pillow? Or on her back, her legs open and relaxed? Heat crept up the back of his neck; he placed his palm on the wall, thought of touching her and had to fight the urge to knock on her door.

      Leaving his shoes by the bed, he made no sound as he reentered the hall. At Yvette’s door he paused to listen, but it was so quiet that he imagined her holding her breath. Hard as it might be, he wouldn’t disturb her.

      Not tonight.

      Instead he went into the kitchen, where a low light shone over the stove. If she kept this up, the electric bill would be through the roof. But he wouldn’t complain.

      Not with the proof of her difficulty there on the kitchen table.

      Dead bolts, bars for the doors and alarms filled the tabletop. Seeing a few empty packages, he went to the window over the sink and found a narrow bar wedged into place, giving the lock a little backup on the off chance someone tried to get in. He checked the other windows and found the same. Striding to the basement door, he located the lock bar wedged under the doorknob, ensuring no one could sneak in—as they had three years ago.

      She’d taken security measures to extremes. For her peace of mind, he could make a few more improvements.

      And he’d stick close. For the foreseeable future, he’d protect her, whether she liked it or not.

      * * *

      WEARING ONLY JEANS, not yet shaved or showered, Cannon stood in the middle of the kitchen the next morning and cursed. Where the hell was she?

      If he’d had any doubts about her dodging him, they were now confirmed.

      The coffeepot remained half-full, and her car was still in the driveway. But her open bedroom door and the empty house told him she’d taken off.

      On foot?

      To where?

      He’d be more concerned except for the note she’d left in front of the coffeepot that read, “Help yourself,” signed with a feminine, curly Y.

      At only a few minutes after 7:00 a.m., morning sunshine poured in the kitchen window, spilling warm amber light over the counter and floor. Today would be a scorcher.

      He always woke early, usually to work out, often to jog.

      After a near-sleepless night where he’d pondered a dozen different scenarios, he’d planned a confrontation with Yvette. He’d expected to be there in the kitchen, alert and ready to sort out the confusion, when she emerged from her bed.

      Still edgy with carnal need, he’d imagined catching her half-awake, maybe in a nightgown, her hair tumbled, her defenses down, warm and drowsy, sensual and sweet...

      Instead she’d gotten up before dawn, made coffee for him and then skipped out.

      The idea that she might be running from him ramped up the raw, basic urge to claim her. Filled with the predatory need to chase—and catch—her, he paced the floor, cursing himself for not getting her phone number. But he hadn’t expected her to bolt last night, and he sure as hell hadn’t expected to find the house empty this morning.

      Maybe where it concerned Yvette Sweeny, he should stop making assumptions and come up with a strategy instead.

      Where to start? Confused ideas clamored in his brain, impossible to sort out. Drawn by the scent, he decided a little coffee wouldn’t hurt. He wasn’t a caffeine junkie, and in fact avoided it while training. But it was one of those small treats he allowed himself between preparing for fights.

      One taste and he groaned. Perfection. Strong enough without being bitter.

      If Yvette ever returned, he’d thank her for it.

      While waiting for her, he finished his mug off and poured another. Eight o’clock came and went. Frustration mounting, Cannon went about checking all facets of security concerning the house. He wanted to know what was needed before he made some calls.

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